


Tuesday's Grace

by WaitAThousandYears



Category: South Park
Genre: All of the death, Depressing as hell, I really hate Tuesdays, Other, Tuesdays suck, Why would you even read this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitAThousandYears/pseuds/WaitAThousandYears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory doesn't do well with goodbyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday's Grace

I hate Tuesdays. I really do. Most people would say that Monday is the Devil's Day, but I disagree. It's Tuesday.  
Every bloody misfortune happens on that godforsaken second day.

-

"I'm moving."  
I remember the chill that crept throughout my entire body as I heard those words.  
"You're moving? As in, leaving Yardale?"  
You nodded.  
"We're going back to France."  
I said nothing. I was only 14 - I didn't know how to deal with that.  
I didn't know how to say goodbye to my best friend.  
I was so angry at you later. You'd known for weeks, but put off telling me until you were about to get into the car.  
It took me a year to realise that maybe you didn't know how to say goodbye either.  
You left during lunch. I didn't go back to class that day.  
Tuesday classes sucked anyway.

-

Large - scale jobs were always a pain in the behind.  
34 straight hours without sleep, tearing around HQ trying to organise an important heist and I remember feeling like a complete tosser.  
Running around like a headless chicken isn't exactly what you'd call dignified.  
I think I was the only one in the building putting any effort into preparing, which is ridiculous seeing as how I have distinct memories of hiring people to prepare for me.  
If you want something done, you have to do it yourself, obviously.  
I was in the middle of… checking schematics or something, when I heard the noise coming from the stairwell. That telltale creaking step was the most useful thing about that rundown building.  
I tossed the papers onto the table and turned.  
And almost keeled over in shock when I saw you casually leaning against the doorframe, as if it had been only yesterday when I last saw you, as opposed to four years ago.  
You tossed a gun to the ground and it slid across the floor to stop at my feet.  
"You need better security."  
"Did you just kill all of my guards?"  
"No." You smirked.  
"I just merely incapacitated them."  
"Wonderful." I sighed, turning back to the now jumbled schematics.  
You approached the table.  
"So, how are you?" You asked nonchalantly, leaning against the wooden surface.  
"I've been better.""That's a shame." You snatched the papers from my hand and began flicking through them.  
"Did you come here to be useful or to make useless small talk?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. You shrugged.  
"Well, I do love small talk."  
"You hate small talk."  
"Oui, but it's so amusing to see you agitated."  
Four years hadn't changed you in the slightest.  
I don't think I ever really expected it to.  
"Bank heist? Gang War?" You asked, looking at me over the plans.  
I nodded in confirmation.  
"You're going to need to be well rested to pull this one off. Go to bed. You look horrible. I'll take over here."  
I smiled gratefully and left you to it. I exited the room and checked my watch - A quarter past 12 on a Wednesday morning. Typical.

-

It's a Thursday now. Thursday the 21st of October, 2010.  
And I'm sitting on a chair in a graveyard pretending to be listening to a priest talking about you as if he knew you.  
There it is - he just has to say it.  
Tuesday the 19th of October. The day you went and died.  
There are a lot of people here. You mother, your family, my family - they really did like you, business colleagues, old friends from Yardale and France, the entire population of South Park where we've spent the past few years.  
There are flowers everywhere and people are crying.  
The Stotch boy had to be escorted home not five minutes ago.  
I know you'd hate this. Be disgusted by it.  
I'm certain you'd have wanted to be cremated.  
No ceremony, no fuss.  
Nothing like this.  
Tough shit.  
This is my revenge, however significant it may be.  
This is what you get for going off and dying. For leaving. Again.  
So all of this - the flowers, the priest, the headstone, it's my payback.  
I'm sure you'd be proud of me.  
But this is some kind of like solace for me as well, it seems.  
Having a place I can come to after all of this.  
I guess I still don't know how to say goodbye.


End file.
